


Burn a hole in the old grip of the familiar

by SolainRhyo



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Ultra Magnus gets a human pet, Ultra Magnus love, Unexpected experiences, awkward interspecies romance, ground bridge isn't working, kinda slow burn, oh god what am I doing here, on the run together, reader/UM sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: It's Sunday. You're fueling up your car. Suddenly you're in the midst of a battle between two enormous mechs, and when the battle's over, you're informed that you need to accompany the victor.You're not really given a choice.





	1. Where titans tread

You’re still not quite certain how you got here.

—here being on your ass in the snow, watching with a deceptive sense of surrealism as two enormous robots (? _)_ beat the ever-loving fuck out of each other in the midst of the burning remains of what was, not so long ago, a gas station. The fuel pumps are gone, blown apart. The building itself is just a blackened, blazing shell. The only car that had been at the pumps when the attack came— _your_ car—was flattened in the early stages of the titan’s brawl you are observing. It's burning too. Your brain is attempting to mitigate the trauma of the past five minutes, which began with a red and blue robot (??) crashing into the far side of the gas station with a cry that you could only describe as “pain-filled.”

Pure shock had led to the first dozen faltering steps you took backward, away from your car and the now unattended pump nozzle lodged in its tank, away too from the enormous humanoid creature getting slowly to its feet. One of its arms appeared to be smoking, perhaps the aftermath of whatever force had propelled it into the gas station. Panic, which set in when the robot (???) glanced around the area and spotted you with a pair of unnervingly blue eyes, prompted you to quickly and clumsily retreat another two dozen steps, well away from the station and well into the middle of the adjoining highway. Terror flooded through you when the metal colossus took one step in your direction, pointed behind you, and said in an extremely authoritative voice, “Run.”

You complied, whipping around and racing for the ditch on the other side of the highway without bothering to look for oncoming traffic (of which there was none on this early Sunday morning, smack dab in the middle of very rural Alberta as you are). You slid down the incline into the ditch proper, the soles on your cheap boots not up to the task of providing traction on ice. You hit the bottom on all fours, heaved yourself back up, and crawled/clawed your way up the other side. Once there, feeling weirdly secure by the fact that a ditch now separated you from the robot, you defied all survival logic and turned around to see if what you thought you saw had in fact happened.

It had. And it seemed that during your ungainly flight another enormous robot had arrived on the scene. This new red and white metal creature was swiftly attacking the first, delivering a flurry of blows with its fists. The one that had spoken to you was deflecting those blows as best it could, and finally broke the chain of attack by executing a ferocious uppercut that had the newcomer airborne.

In your direction.

You scampered backward with a complete lack of grace and a desperate will not to be crushed to death. Fortunately for you, the robot skidded to a screeching halt in the middle of the highway, immediately got to its feet, and hurtled back toward its opponent. Every running step it took caused the ground to shake, and that was all the reason your already numb legs needed to crumple beneath you. You watched open-mouthed in disbelieving terror as the first robot began to fire at the second robot with cannons inexplicably where its lower arms had been mere seconds ago. You questioned its aim as it seemed to miss with every shot, and questioned it even further when a stray shot struck a gas pump, leading to a burst of heat and light so loud and so bright that you buried your head between your legs and screamed for fear of being incinerated.

So, perhaps you _do_ know how you got here, on your ass on the ground, the melting snow seeping uncomfortably through your jeans. You don’t know _why_ this is happening, nor do you know just _how_ there came to be two giant metal robots intent on pulverizing each other into oblivion. You do know that you are still too close, perilously close, to the unearthly smackdown that is occurring. You try to get your legs to obey you, but they staunchly refuse. Your body seems to have shut down all non-imperative functions to focus on those that matter: Hyperventilation. A racing heart. A dry mouth. And, should the scenario before you escalate any further, involuntary urination.

“Leave it to an _Autobot_ to pick a fight in the middle of nowhere,” says the red and white robot as it grabs a light pole and wrenches it out of the ground before brandishing it as a bat. It takes a wild swing at the other, striking a glancing blow. Its opponent, the one that had spoken to you, catches the light pole in both hands and attempts to wrestle it free. The two tussle for a long string of moments before the bigger one triumphs, and in a movement so swift it’s nearly a blur, brutally whips it across the face of the enemy.

“Sorry about your finish, Knock Out.” It says in a voice that is anything but apologetic.

 _“My face!”_ the other— _Knock Out_ —howls, staggering back. “ _Never_ scratch the face!”

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the first was smirking a little. “I just did.”

Knock Out makes a garbled sound of rage before launching itself at the other. Their collision causes tremors and reinforces your body’s notion that being partially supine is better than standing right at this moment. You continue to observe as the two colossi continue their combat. The bigger of the two seems to have gained an advantage, landing a slow but very effective series of hits that send Knock Out reeling. It reaches down and grabs a concrete parking barrier, hefting it as easily as you would a pen, and hurls it at the recovering Knock Out. Its aim is unerring; the concrete block strikes Knock Out with enough force to launch it ( _him?_ ) ass over teakettle. The red and white titan is sent tumbling down the highway, mercifully away from you.

You finally manage to get to your feet, but you have no intention of running away just yet. You’re invested in this battle now, invested on a level that could be very detrimental to your health. And so you watch, breathing in little, still-panicked pants, as the red and blue robot strides down the highway with the clear intent of delivering further punishment upon its opponent. Except it doesn’t, because Knock Out suddenly _transforms_ into a flashy red sports car and takes off at breakneck speed with the audible screech of tires.

“What. The. Fuck.” You mouth silently, because goddamn if the transforming part of this little scenario isn’t the part that’s breaking your brain.

You fully expect the red and blue one to give chase. You would like it to give chase, because then it would be gone and you’d be able to reassert your grip over reality. To your dismay it doesn’t. Instead, it turns to look at the smoldering wreckage of the gas station. And then, to your absolute horror, it turns to look at you.

“Fuck no,” you gulp as it begins to move in your direction. “Fuck no, fuck no, fuck no—” And with that mantra on gasped repeat, you spin around and bolt in the other direction.

You know you can’t outrun it. There’s no part of you that isn’t aware of that fact. _Fucking really?_ Your brain asks you in an internal voice dripping with scorn. _You really thought you were gonna make a five second mile?_ The answer is of course no, and it’s a big No at that as the red and blue colossus manages not only to overtake you, but cut in front of you.

“Don't run,” it tells you. You respond with a shriek, skidding to a halt and landing on your ass in the snow yet again.

“You will not be harmed,” it goes on to say, holding out both hands in a manner that you assume is meant to assuage your fears. It doesn’t work. Perhaps in an effort to make itself less intimidating, it drops to one knee in front of you, leaning down so that its enormous face is terrifyingly close to your own. You utter a squawk and scuttle backward.

“It was unfortunate you had to witness that,” it says. “I had attempted to draw him to a sparsely populated location. I hadn't intended collateral damage.”

You think for a fleeting half-second of the poor man that had been manning the till inside the gas station, and spend the next few seconds after that coming to grips with the fact that you may have _just barely_ escaped death today. _Then again_ , you silently amend as your eyes fix again on the surprisingly expressive face of the metal titan before you, _I’m clearly not out of the woods yet_.

The two of you are staring at each other now. You’re not sure what it’s expecting from you at this point. Conversation is beyond your mental capabilities. Instead you remain mute, watching it out of eyes that feel impossibly wide. Finally it expels a breath ( _it can do that?_ ), which sounds an awful lot to you like a mildly exasperated sigh. “Can you understand me, native?” It asks you in that strangely sonorous, very male voice. _It’s a him_ , your brain helpfully provides.

“Y-yes,” you manage in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“Good. I need you to listen to me. Carefully. I'm required to leave behind no witnesses that could spread confirmation of my existence. Furthermore, I'm required to ensure that any and all native life forms that witness anything of this nature are both protected and brought to Agent Fowler.”

He looks at you expectantly after he stops speaking. There’s a ridge above each of his strange, glowing blue eyes and right now one is hiked upward, mirroring what your own eyebrows could do. As your poor mind attempts to sort through the jumble of unbelievable things it’s been spammed with in the past fifteen minutes, it eventually dawns on you that he’s awaiting some kind of acknowledgment that you comprehend what he’s telling you.

“Protected from what? Who’s Agent Fowler?” Your voice is three pitches higher than it usually is, accompanied by a very obvious quaver.

“From the Decepticons,” he tells you, his tone impatient. “And Agent Fowler is one of _you._ ”

His answers aren’t really answers at at all. Now, along with the still-present fear, you feel the first stirrings of hysteria. “Who are you?” You demand shrilly. “ _What_ are you?”

He looks momentarily taken aback by your sharp increase in volume. “I am Ultra Magnus,” he responds, “and I am an Autobot.”

“ _WHAT THE FUCK IS AN AUTOBOT?”_

Your shout startles him enough that he leans away from you. In the silence following your outburst, you start breathing quickly. Too quickly. Your heart is racing again, and this time it’s kicked into overdrive. Still sitting, your jeans completely wet from the snow, you protectively bring your knees to your chest and press your face against them. You’ve never had a panic attack before, but you’re pretty sure this awful constricting feeling in your chest and throat is a sign of an impending one. Or a sign that you’re _having_ one.

“You're panicking,” Ultra Magnus says, making a timely observation. There’s a lilt to his words that makes it sound more like a question than a statement. It takes you several attempts to wheeze out an affirmative.

“Remain calm. This reaction is not beneficial to our situation.”

 _Our situation._ You feel a bubble of inane laughter rising in your throat. You force it down. Instead you surprise yourself (and presumably the Autobot) by getting to your feet. You stand there for a minute, willing the wobbliness in your legs to fade. It doesn’t. On the bright side, your breathing has slowed considerably. Basking in that minuscule triumph, you woodenly turn on your heel and begin to walk back toward the highway.

“Where are you—” Ultra Magnus’ incredulous voice rises behind you. You steadfastly ignore it. On some level you’re aware that you’re operating on reserve sanity, because the bulk of it is currently occupied with the chaos that is your thoughts. What you’re doing right now doesn’t make much sense, but then again, neither does anything else that’s just happened. You’re walking because some primal part of your brain is telling you to, but it isn’t telling you _why._

It takes the robot a step and a half to cut in front of you again. He doesn’t bother dropping down to your level this time, instead addressing you from up high. “You must accompany me,” he says.

“No,” you reply immediately.

This time both his eyebrow ridges shoot upward. “No? Were you unable to comprehend what I said earlier?”

“I—I understood. But I don’t want to go. I want to go home.” You muster up the calmest tone you possibly can in order to try and convince him to just let you go.

His brows descend, his face arranging itself into a frown. “I can't allow that.”

“I won’t say anything!” You cry, deciding to switch gears. Maybe begging pathetically is the key here. “Nobody needs to know this happened!”

He slowly cranes his head around to look at the still burning, very obvious ruins of the gas station, and just as slowly turns it back. “Well obviously _some_ people are going to see this,” you amend desperately, “but nobody needs to know it was you!”

“There's a chance we were observed,” he counters evenly. “And there's also the chance that Knock Out spotted you. If he did, your life is now in peril.”

You swallowed heavily. “Knock Out being one of those … Decepticons you mentioned earlier?”

He nods once.

“Oh god,” you whisper, burying your face in your hands. Speaking through your fingers, your words a little muffled, you ask with little hope, “But I’m just … small. Human. Why would I matter to other robots?”

“Robots,” he repeats, distaste emphasizing every syllable of the word. “If you must call us something, call us mechs.”

“Sorry. Mechs.” You remove your hands from your face, looking up at him as you repeat your question. “ _Why_ would I be in danger from them?”

“Because it's in their nature to harm. Because they will not care that you were merely a bystander. Because they will take any opportunity to threaten native species such as yourself in order to thwart our plans.”

“And you? Why do you care?”

He stares down at you wordlessly for a long span of moments, and you are almost certain that the answer to your question is _“I don’t.”_ But eventually he stirs and gives you a response. “Because Optimus expects it.”

“Well that fucking clears everything up!” You announce, sarcasm and hysteria warring for control over your voice. “Tell Optimus I said thanks, but no thanks!” And driven by the heady rush that’s a result of feeling every negative emotion known to mankind in the span of less than an hour, you angrily march between his legs.

You hear him sigh again, very loudly, behind you. And then you are screeching, because suddenly his giant metal fingers are wrapping your midsection, and just as suddenly you are being hefted into the air. With surprising gentleness considering his size and capacity for violence, he transfers you to his other hand, depositing you onto his open palm so that you are now facing him.

“You don't need to agree with me on this,” he says grimly, his luminous eyes narrowed. “And you most definitely don't need to like it. But you _will_ be accompanying me until I can deliver you to Agent Fowler. Am I understood, native?”

You debate saying no again. You debate flipping him the bird. You debate telling him to fuck off. You even debate jumping out of his hand, but a quick glance over the side reveals to you that you’d probably be severely injured in the fall to the ground. “Yes,” you finally huff reluctantly.

“Good. Now, I'm going to put you down. Don't run from me again. I'm going to transform and then we will mobilize.”

As he lowers his hand, you recall the manner in which the other ~~robot~~ mech had transformed. You step off his palm and back up a few feet, giving him room to work his magic. In a split second he is no longer a metal humanoid titan. Instead he is a large blue semi with red accents and plenty of chrome. Your brain tries very hard to reconcile his former stature with what’s before you now. It fails miserably.

The passenger door to the semi swings open. The headlights flash. “Get in,” he orders in a clearly audible voice. Instead of complying, you back up a step. The truck’s horn sounds once in warning.

“What the fuck am I doing?” you whisper to yourself as you hesitantly approach the truck. Once you’ve reached it, you stare up into the empty, open cab with a dire sense of foreboding. You feel in this instant like you are perched on the very edge of a precipice, and you have an awful suspicion that regardless of where you fall, _when_ you fall the consequences will be worse than anything you’ve ever known. You can taste the fear of the unknown on your tongue, a metal tang that has you swallowing thickly, and it’s all you can do in that moment not to whirl around and run away again.

“Get in,” Ultra Magnus blares, startling you. With a sigh, you use the step to hop up and grip the handle before swinging yourself up into the cab. The door shuts the moment you’re inside. “Buckle up,” his voice orders you, loud enough that it feels like he’s speaking directly into your ear. “It's going to be a long drive.”

**.x.**

  


	2. The less you know

****Ultra Magnus is not one for idle chatter. In fact, he’s not one for speaking at all. In the hours after your departure from the destroyed gas station, neither of you has said a word. You did emit some sounds early on, however, mostly sniffles as the panic and the fear that you’d felt during the ordeal finally caught up with you in force. You’d wept as quietly as you could, wiping surreptitiously at your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your coat. In between bouts of tears you occupied yourself by staring out the window, because it felt way too weird to let your eyes wander around the truck’s cab. Around _him._ For the same reason, you are sitting pressed up against the passenger side door, unwilling to take up any unnecessary space even though the bench seat provides you with plenty of room. On top of being doused in fear and confusion, you also feel as though you are trespassing on a personal level. You’re riding _inside_ of a living being.

At some point, you mentally begin to take stock of what kind of assets you have on your person. Thankfully, you’re one of those women who despises a purse, instead relying on a wallet usually carried in your coat’s inner pocket. The same pocket also holds your phone and the keys to your house and your (burnt out shell of a) car. You’ve thought many times since getting into the truck about pulling out your phone and dialing 911 to report the incident, but every time you get close to entertaining the idea you realize you’d have to explain Ultra Magnus and Knock Out to the authorities. What’s more, Ultra Magnus himself proves to be a prohibitive factor because there’s no way he’ll just meekly surrender you. In the event you manage to somehow contact the police and get away from Ultra Magnus and opt to leave the mechs out of your story, a gas station exploding spontaneously isn’t something people are going to buy. Add to the fact that your car was incinerated but you weren’t, and you’re looking at a nightmarish process that you just don’t feel up to tackling mentally. _Later,_ you promise yourself. You’ve always been good at putting off problems for Future You to deal with.

At around the three hour mark of your journey to who-knows-where, you realize you have to pee. You think about asking Ultra Magnus to stop and then immediately chicken out. The task of speaking to him now seems far too daunting. _I can hold it_ , you think. And you do. For two more hours. Now you are in agony, having left it far too long, and with great trepidation you manage to muster your voice to speak.

“Can we take a break?”

There is no reply for several seconds. You open your mouth to ask again when he finally responds. “No.”

You’d expected this. “Please,” you say. “I really need a break.”

“We must continue. Decepticon pursuit is still a possibility.”

“I get that. I do. But I _need_ a break.”

“For what reason?”

“Uh … I’m hungry. And thirsty.”

“I am aware that your kind can endure more than a few hours without sustenance.”

 _Shit._ Discussing bodily functions with a giant mech warrior was not what you wanted to do, but it looks like you have no choice. “I need a bathroom.”

“Which is?”

 _Shit shit shit._ How does he know humans can go without food and water for a while but doesn’t know about everything else? “A bathroom,” you say a trifle desperately, because your discomfort is now hitting intolerable levels. “It’s a place where I can…” And here you halt, because you really don’t know how to explain this. And what’s more, you really don’t want to.

He makes an impatient noise, almost like someone clearing their throat expectantly. “I need to pee,” you say finally, humiliation coating every word. And then, fiercely hating every fucking second of it, you go on to explain just what that means.

There is a long period of silence after you finish. You’re not sure if it’s your own projection or not, but it kind of feels like a horrified silence. When you can’t stand it any more, you decide to use the nuclear option. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it, but if you don’t stop soon I’m going to leak all over this seat.”

“… Point out the next facility you see.”

Based on his voice, it’s hard to tell who’s more mortified at this point.

Fortunately, you’re still familiar with the area. You’re still in a largely rural location, but you direct him to a ramshackle truck stop/liquor store combo on the side of a highway less than ten minutes later. The moment he comes to a halt you’re unbuckled, out the door, and running into the truck stop where you proceed to have the most amazing (and longest) pee of your life. Afterward, standing in the store proper, you’re struck by a stray thought. What if you call the cops now? You could tell them you were abducted (which isn’t that far from the truth) and make up a story about the explosion. But then you remember Knock Out and everything Ultra Magnus had said about the Decepticons, and consider the fact that if the Decepticons really are on your tail, are they really going to be deterred by a couple of cop cars?

You’re torn. You don’t want to be attacked by other giant mechs, but you also really don’t want to accompany Ultra Magnus. You want your life to go back to the way it used to be seven hours ago. You think back fondly on this morning, when you’d been drinking tea warm and cozy in your home without any knowledge whatsoever that warring factions of mechs existed on earth. You’re rudely pulled from your reverie by the sound of Ultra Magnus’ horn sounding from the parking lot.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter. Seized by a sudden urge to be as obstinate as possible, you proceed to take your time browsing the truck stop’s admittedly meager wares, finally selecting a large blueberry muffin wrapped in an unnecessary amount of plastic wrap, and two bottles of water. You pay for your stuff with cash, pocket the change, and reluctantly leave the store just as Ultra Magnus sounds his horn again.

“You know, honking your horn at me every two minutes is going to attract a lot of attention,” you tell him with no small amount of irritation as you hoist yourself into the cab.

“You were wasting time.”

“I needed something to eat and drink.”

“That will only lead to more unnecessary stops.”

“I’m human!” you snap. “I can’t help the way my body works. If you have a problem with it, feel free to leave me here!”

You know what he’s thinking then, because you’re thinking it too. You have no doubt whatsoever that he wishes that he could in fact leave you here. You decide to use that to your advantage. “This… Optimus friend of yours… does he even need to know about me? Can’t you just omit me out of your story? Leave me here and I swear to you I won’t say a word to anyone. I just want to forget about all of this and I’m sure you do too.”

“It’s not that simple,” he responds, and his voice sounds almost weary.

“Why not?” you press. “It could be. Look, uh… Ultra Magnus, I’m a nobody. I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. If you’re worried about leaving me here, don’t be. I have friends that can come and get me. There’s a lot of land here, lots of ways to lose someone. Even if Knock Out is still around, how he could possibly find me once I’m off the highway, on the back roads, out in the fields and the trees?”

“Knock Out is but one of the Decepticons. There are others, and we have no way of knowing if they’re aware you exist. If they do—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, scowling. He’s not going to go for it. His engine ( _does he have one?_ ) starts and you reach for the seatbelt out of habit. As you buckle in he smoothly pulls out of the parking lot, turning right onto the highway so that you’re heading north again.

“Where are we going?” You finally think to ask minutes later. “Where’s your… base?” You assume that’s where he’s taking you.

“Nevada,” he tells you, and you choke on the sip of water you’d just taken.

“Nevada?” you repeat incredulously after sputtering for several seconds. “Nevada is southwest. _Really_ southwest. We’re going north.”

“I’m aware of what direction we’re traveling in, native.”

The thinly veiled condescension in his voice grates on your nerves. “Then why,” you inquire through clenched teeth, “are we heading _north_?”

There’s a long pause before he responds. You suspect he likes making you wait for an answer simply out of spite. “Usually I’m able to return to base by another method. However, there’s been a complication. Until it has been rectified, we must remain on the move.”

“Another method?”

He makes an exasperated sound, identical to a sigh. It’s downright eerie how he can do that when in the shape of a semi truck. “Must you ask so many questions?”

“I do when the answers directly affect my life!”

“Very well,” he grudgingly acquiesces. “Though the science is most likely beyond your comprehension, we’re usually able to depart and return to our base through what is known as a ground bridge. A ground bridge,” he says, anticipating your next question, “is a smaller version of a space bridge. It’s used to traverse long distances almost instantly.”

“It’s a portal?”

“No.”

“It sounds like a portal.”

“It’s not.”

“So your base’s ground bridge is broken?”

“It’s currently malfunctioning.”

“Did you use it to get way up here?”

“Yes,” he affirms, “Twenty-six cycles ago.”

“And a cycle is…?”

“Roughly equivalent to one of your hours.”

“So your… the other Autobots, did they tell you it was broken?”

“Yes.”

“Have you heard from them since?”

A long pause. “No.”

You lean back in the seat, bottle of water wedged between your thighs. “That doesn’t sound good.”

He doesn’t reply.

**.x.**

Three hours later and it’s long since gotten dark. You are dozing, cheek pressed against the door window, but you come awake when Ultra Magnus begins to slow. Blinking tiredly, you watch as he pulls off the highway onto a small dirt road. You notice a sign illuminated by the headlights which indicates this is a lease road, used to access one of the thousands of oil and gas wells dotting the landscape in this part of the province. The lease road is nowhere near as smooth as the highway, and you find yourself clutching the door handle as Ultra Magnus bumps and lurches forward. You’re relieved when he finally comes to a halt. The passenger door opens, a prompt for you to exit the cab. Grabbing your water bottles and half-eaten muffin and shoving them into your pockets, you comply with his unspoken directive.

He transforms the moment your feet touch the ground, and it startles you enough that you stumble back a few steps. You seemed to have forgotten over the past few hours just how _big_ he is in this form. He raises his arms and locks them behind his head, leaning backward. It dawns on you that he’s stretching, and it strikes you as more than odd that a creature that seems to be formed almost entirely of metal would have to work out the kinks after a long day of driving. Watching him stretch reminds your body that it’s sore from a day spent sitting, too, and so you indulge its gripes by walking around, easing the stiffness in your legs. As you do so you pull out your phone, checking your messages. There are none. You swipe through your contact list until you find your neighbour’s name. You have no idea how long you’ll be gone and you need someone to check on your place—

“What are you doing?”

Ultra Magnus’ alarmed voice prompts you to pause in the act of raising your phone to your ear. You stare up at him in confusion as he quickly approaches you. He leans over and with surprising dexterity considering his size, plucks your phone from your grip with two fingers. “Hey—” you begin to shout. You lunge toward him as realization dawns, as he draws his arm back in preparation to throw, and watch helplessly as he proceeds to lob your phone into the upper atmosphere.

“ _What the fuck!_ ” You clutch at your head with both hands in stunned disbelief.

“Are you _trying_ to lead them to us?” he demands, whirling around to glare down at you.

“You can’t just—that was—I fucking _needed_ that!”

“If the Decepticons are aware of you, they are most certainly tracking your device. They could send a ground bridge to this exact location!”

“Then why didn’t they do that sooner?”

“Have you used the device before now?”

You violently shake your head, fuming with outrage. You turn away from him, crossing your arms over your chest, and seriously debate making a run for the shadowy line of trees you see not far off. However, his warnings about the Decepticons temper the urge, and instead you settle for angrily scuffing at the frozen surface of the road with the toe of your boot.

Behind you, you hear him attempting to contact the other Autobots. “Ratchet, do you read me? Requesting a ground bridge to my location.” He waits a few seconds and tries again several times over, to no avail.

“I must enter recharge,” he says some minutes later.

Still furious, you glare at him over your shoulder. “Recharge?”

“Sleep,” he clarifies. “You should too.”

You look around you. You’re on a road that cuts through the middle of a snow covered field. Your breath is rising as steam on the air. While it’s not bitterly cold, it’s chill enough to be uncomfortable. Given his ignorance about certain aspects of mankind, you’re wondering if he expects you to make a nest out of snow and snooze that way.

He’s aware of what you’re thinking; the look he gives you can only be described as _withering._ “I’ll transform,” he says shortly. “You may rest inside.”

“How very gracious of you,” you mutter under your breath. He slants you a sharp look, but says nothing, instead reassuming the form of the semi.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him, turning to walk toward the trees. You hear his engine rev, probably a prelude to him running you over. You yell over you shoulder, “I have to _pee_.”

**.x.**

Later—you’re not sure how much—you’re still wide awake. You refuse to stretch out on the bench seat, so instead you’re left with trying to find a sitting or semi-reclining position that’s comfortable. You haven’t had much luck. You took off your coat and bunched it up in order to use it as a pillow squeezed between your head and the window, but it didn’t help much either. You’re trying to limit your fidgeting lest you bother Ultra Magnus, but knowing you can’t move makes your body want to move. It is, in a word, infuriating.

The dash of the truck is completely dark. You’d noticed when driving that every gauge and indicator was backlit by the same brilliant blue of Ultra Magnus’ eyes. You’d expected that when he went into “recharge” that there’d be complete silence. There isn’t. There’s still some noise, sounding faintly to you like the hum of fans adjusting their speed every so often. It should be a comforting, soothing noise. In any other circumstance, it probably would have been.

Around the 900th time you attempt to find a comfortable position, the lights on the dash flicker to life. You cringe, fully expecting a verbal beatdown.

“You’re unable to recharge?” he questions. His words are slower than usual, and maybe you’re imagining it but his voice sounds slightly husky, the way yours does after being woken from a sound sleep. You feel a twinge of guilt at having roused him.

“No,” you say.

“Do you require something?”

“No.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“I can’t shut my brain off,” you tell him, staring out the windshield into the dark.

He is quiet. You know he’s attempting to sort out the vernacular. Finally he says, “You’ve been confronted with a great deal in a short span of time. For a human, something like this must require a great deal of processing.”

He doesn’t sound entirely unsympathetic, which is nice. “That’s one way of putting it,” you agree, adding, “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Silence falls. You bunch your coat up again with the intent of putting it behind your head. “Would you be more inclined to sleep if you were supine?” Ultra Magnus asks.

You eye the rest of the bench seat with longing. Even if you don’t fall asleep, you’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable. “Maybe,” you say.

“Then do so.”

 _But it’s weird,_ you want to tell him. But then you realize he’d want to know why, and you aren’t up for trying to explain. So you slip your boots off, turn, and lift your legs onto the seat. You inch down slowly, until you’re lying flat, and then lay your head onto your makeshift pillow. You stare up at the roof of the cab, arms folded loosely across your stomach. After a while you notice the lights on the dash fade off, indicating that Ultra Magnus has slipped back into recharge. You resume staring upward until your blinks become slower, and then finally you are able to succumb to sleep.

**.x.**

The next three days of travel with Ultra Magnus fall into a pattern.

In the morning he usually wakes you up by honking his horn. You exit the cab, he transforms, and while you take care of your needs, he walks about and attempts to contact his fellow Autobots. When you’re both finished, you resume traveling.

Conversation between the two of you remains sparse. Less than sparse, even. Despite that, you manage to persuade Ultra Magnus into stopping between 4 to 5 times per day in order to let you stretch, use the bathroom, and replenish food stores (such as they are, packaged sandwiches and other unhealthy assorted truck stop wares). Once night falls, which is actually pretty early this far north during the winter season, he’ll continue to drive for another hour or two before finding some isolated road that leads to some version of nowhere. Your nights are spent stretched out on the seat, either staring up or curled on your side, and it’s predictably another couple of hours before you can convince your mind to shut the fuck up and finally drift off to sleep. Subsequently, when Ultra Magnus rudely awakens you before the sun has risen, you’re pretty much still exhausted. Most of the sleep you do manage to secure happens during the day when you doze off.

On the fourth day, you realize that you’re starting to smell a little ripe. Maybe more than a little. You’ve tried to freshen up a bit whenever you get a bathroom break, but you’re still wearing the same clothes from four days ago and you also haven’t showered since then. So, when you enter your traditional morning bargaining phase with Ultra Magnus today, you beg extra hard to convince him to stop somewhere with additional facilities. As per your expectations, he is resistant to this request.

“We can’t afford to waste extra time.”

“We have nothing _but_ time! When’s the last time you saw a Decepticon?”

“Just because I haven’t seen one doesn't mean they aren’t aware of my location. _Our_ location.”

“Ultra Magnus,” you say pleadingly, drawing out his name. “I _need_ a shower. I’m dirty. I smell.”

“Those seem inconsequential matters, considering our circumstances.”

“They’re not inconsequential to humans. Cleanliness is important. Neglecting it can lead to health issues.”

He makes a disbelieving sound, almost like a snort. You scowl. “You haven’t spent a lot of time around humans, have you?”

“No, I have not.”

“Is that why you hate us?”

“I don’t…” He stops, and then it sounds as if he inhales deeply. “I haven’t been on this planet long enough to develop an informed opinion regarding your species.”

 _This planet, huh?_ You think on that for a while. You’re not really surprised that he and his kind hail from another planet, but along with everything else you’ve learned over the last few days it’s something that requires further rumination. Not now, though. Right now you need to convince your mech companion to stop so you can shower.

“I’m not lying,” you tell him. “If we go too long without being clean we can develop health issues. I don’t know what it’s like for your species, but showering at least every other day is kind of a necessity for mine.”

As you’d expected, Ultra Magnus is so hung up on his buddy Optimus’ directive to keep humans safe that stating your case like this has given him pause. “How severe of health issues?” he asks.

“Depends,” you say carefully. You don’t want to push too hard. “If left too long, there can be some _really_ unpleasant consequences.”

Sometimes the sound of his exasperated growl is music to your ears, particularly when it means he’s going to capitulate with your request. “Very well,” he says in a voice practically dripping with vexation. “Inform me when you see a suitable place to stop.”

A suitable place doesn’t make an appearance until nearly sundown. Ultra Magnus staunchly refuses to enter any urban areas of considerable size, which kind of limits the possibilities. However, you come upon a intersection of two busy primary highways. Nearby is a large truck stop that has exactly what you need, along with an attached line of small buildings including a restaurant, a tourist shop, a liquor store, and—miracle of miracles—a dollar store.

“How long will you be?” he asks as you open the door.

“30 minutes. Maybe more.”

“Just to hose yourself off with water?”

“It’s a bit more than that,” you explain, sliding halfway out the cab lest he change his mind and decide to start moving again. “I need to buy some stuff. Soap. Shampoo. Clothes. Then I’ll shower.”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t understand why I need to do these things. Please just trust me, okay? I won’t be that long. I promise.”

You hop to the ground before he can disagree with anything you say, which of course he’ll do because you’re pretty certain he only exists to be contradictory. You walk quickly, heading first into the truck stop’s convenience store to grab some of the essentials. You then hit up the dollar store where, as you’d hoped, you’re able to buy some very affordable but poorly crafted clothing and underwear. You buy multiples in the event that your road trip with the mech ends up being even longer than either of you expect. You then make a beeline to the shower facilities, find them miraculously empty, choose a stall, and get to work. You’d forgotten how fucking wonderful a hot shower could be. Even though you know your transformed companion is impatiently awaiting you outside, you can’t help but luxuriate in the cascade of hot water. Simply washing your hair feels cathartic. You linger far longer than you should, and once you’re out of the shower you rush to make up for it. You leave the facility with a cheap dollar store towel wrapped around your head, your dirty clothes jammed into one plastic bag, the rest of your purchases in two others.

“What’s on your helm?” Ultra Magnus inquires when you open the cab door.

His terminology stumps you for a second. “We call it a ‘head’,” you answer, tossing in your bags. “And it’s a towel.” You climb in and close the door behind you. “Thank you for stopping,” you add. You figure it never hurts to show some gratitude.

“You took longer than your estimation,” he says as he begins to move.

So that’s what gratitude gets you. You roll your eyes. “Thanks anyway,” you say, removing the towel and combing out the medium lengths of your hair with your fingers. You’d forgotten to buy a brush or comb so you work at the tangles diligently until you’re satisfied, and then tie it all back into a loose, messy braid. You lean back, closing your eyes. It feels so good to be clean, both relaxing and rejuvenating, and unsurprisingly you nod off almost immediately.

You wake when he comes to a slow halt, lifting your head and peering blearily out the windshield. He’s chosen another oil lease for his recharge session, this one surrounded on all sides by thick forest. It’s dark. The towel you’d used on your hair is laid across your lap, still damp. When the passenger door opens, you tiredly slide out of the cab, towel in hand, and hop carefully to the ground. Ultra Magnus transforms and begins his nightly ritual of stretching, pacing, and attempting to contact his base. You make your way to the edge of the lease, where a dead poplar tree has blown partially over, its branches long and easily within reach. You drape the towel over one, hoping it’ll dry over night. A glance to your left reveals the mech is still engaged in attempting to restore communications with the others of his kind. You feel kind of bad for him. You’ve had a taste these last few days of living life on the run and it really isn’t great. You can’t really imagine what it’s like to be on the run, while your kind is engaged in a war, with no way to return to safety. Ultra Magnus seems to be handling the stress well, but then again, you have no idea if his kind gets stressed the way humans do. From your limited interactions with him he’s proven to be the very definition of austere (as well as impatient) but maybe that’s a result of his current situation. It could also just be the way he is.

He seems a bit more desperate tonight in trying to establish contact. He’s trying to reach others aside from just Ratchet. You overhear him calling for Optimus, as well as an Arcee, a Wheeljack, and a Bulkhead. After watching him for a minute you decide to leave him to it. You pull up your hood and tuck your hands into your pockets before walking to the other side of the lease. You’re still within earshot of the mech, but you’re far enough away to give him some semblance of privacy. It’s colder tonight than it has been the previous nights, but there’s no wind, which is nice. You lean your head back and look up. One of the perks of rural living (one of your favorites) is that without light pollution, the night sky is absolutely stunning. This is especially true in the winter, when lower temperatures lead to clearer skies. You have an uninhibited view of the black canvas and the multitudes of stars strewn across it. You’re not a professional stargazer, but you’ve yet to find anything as awe-inspiring as the sky above you right now, and it’s easy to lose yourself into trying to find the constellations you do know (which amount to Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and Cygnus).

The ground announces that Ultra Magnus is approaching, shaking with every step he takes. He comes to a halt at your side, looking down at you. “No luck?” you inquire sympathetically.

“No,” he responds, frowning.

“Sorry,” you offer. There’s not much else you can say.

He doesn’t respond. You didn’t think he would. You return your eyes to the sky, letting silence settle between you. You break it eventually by asking curiously, “So, which one are you from?”

“My planet is not visible from Earth,” he replies, confirming what you’d suspected. “But I can show you the general location, if you’d like.”

You stare up at him in surprise. “Yes, please.”

He leans down and extends his open hand.After a split second of hesitation you step onto his palm and hold onto the equivalent of his thumb as he lifts you slowly. When you’re level with his chest he points with his other arm. “Do you see the star your astronomers have named Alpha Cygni?”

“Uh… no. Well, yes. It’s part of Cygnus. I mean, I can’t see it because of—” you make a fist and rap on one of his fingers, which are currently curled inward to prevent you from falling. They’re large enough to impede your view of the part of the sky he’s indicating, even with you standing. He glances down at you and then lifts you higher, across his chest, until you’re even with his opposite shoulder.

“Climb up,” he orders. “Carefully.”

You do so with slow, tentative movements. An unwise peek over the side of his hand prompts a soft _eep_ from your mouth; he’s a lot taller than you realized. Finally you’ve managed to clamber up onto the flat expanse between his “helm” and the (in your opinion) unnecessarily large protrusions on his shoulders. It’s a lot roomier than you’d thought it would be. You sit cross-legged, close enough to the edge that you have a side view of his face, but far enough that your gaze isn’t unpleasantly drawn to the ground that’s way too far below. Once you’re settled, Ultra Magnus resumes pointing. From your new perch, you can see with some effort the star he’s indicating. It helps that you’re familiar with the constellation it’s a part of.

“Got it,” you tell him.

He moves his pointing finger up and to the right. “Delta Cygni. Do you see it?”

“Yes,” you respond after a long moment. You realize he’s pointing out stars within the Northern Cross. You watch as his finger drops down and to the right. “Albireo,” you say, preemptively answering his question, and then add smugly, “Also known as Beta Cygni. A double star.”

He turns his head slightly, eyeing you sidelong with one brow ridge raised.

“My mother was astronomer. An amateur astronomer. A hobbyist, really,” you explain. “She liked to show me this stuff when I was growing up.”

Ultra Magnus returns his attention to the sky. He traces the paths between the three stars with his finger, forming a triangle. “My planet,” he tells you, “lies far beyond those three.”

You prop your elbows on your knees and settle your chin in your hands, looking up at him in fascination. This really is incredible. You’re sitting on the shoulder of an enormous maybe-mechanical life form that comes from another planet. This fact, combined with all the other new ones you’ve encountered over the past week, makes it feel like your life has become some kind of fever dream. Maybe it has. Questionable reality aside, you want—nay, need—to know more. “How far? How many light years are we talking?”

“Approximately 4.5.”

You think on that. You’re homesick and you’re only several hundred kilometers from where you live. You can’t even fathom being so far removed from there that it would take countless lifetimes to reach, given human limitations. “You’re a long way from home,” you say quietly.

“Yes.” His voice is heavy.

You’re seized by the sudden urge to offer him comfort and you reach out to pat him instinctively on the side of his helm before you realize what you’re doing. You have the feeling he may not appreciate a human gesture of that nature, and given the fact that you’ve just both been civil toward each other for the longest period of time since being forced together, you’re not eager to recreate the usual atmosphere of tension that tends to surround you both. Instead you bring your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. You peer up at Ultra Magnus, noting that his eyes are still on that particular part of the sky, noting too that his expression is almost human-like in its sadness. You feel intrusive in this moment, catching a glimpse of something he most certainly doesn’t wish for you to see, and so you avert your eyes, finding another part of the night’s canvas familiar to you. You focus on mentally connecting the stars, unwilling to break the silence that has fallen. Minutes pass, enough time for the chill to finally penetrate the layers of your coat. You’re starting to feel the cold in the tips of your fingers, and so you tuck your hands up into your sleeves.

Your movement doesn’t go unnoticed. “You’re cold,” Ultra Magnus observes.

You shrug. “A little.”

When he raises his hand, you scoot over to the edge and carefully step down onto it. In an effort to avoid vertigo during the descent, you sit down. You feel safer that way. Once you’re on the ground again, you look up at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you for showing me that. It’s amazing to think that you’re from… well, you know.”

You’re utterly astonished as he smiles faintly in return. “I do know. And you're welcome.”

He transforms immediately after saying that, as though trying to downplay the fact that he showed any expression other than ‘stern’. The passenger side door opens, and you immediately climb up inside, eager for the warmth the interior offers.

A short time later, when you’re stretched out on the seat with your coat again bundled beneath your head, Ultra Magnus poses a question. “Do you have a designation?”

It takes you a minute to sort out what he’s asking. “A name?”

He makes a noise that’s almost like a low hum, a sound of assent. “Yes,” you reply, a little thrown. “It’s…” And here you pause. Logic wars with courtesy. The polite thing to do is give him your name. The smart thing to do is to keep it to yourself, because regardless of your little zen moment earlier this evening, he’s still a giant mech from another planet engaged in a war with other mechs (also presumably from another planet… or perhaps the same one?). You’re ultimately hoping that once your journey is over and you’re delivered to ‘Agent Fowler’ that you can return to life as you knew it. To that end, you have a strong suspicion that the less Ultra Magnus and all those associated with him know about you, the better.

You have to say _something_. You panic inwardly, blurting out the first word that comes to mind. “Earthling.”

“Earthling,” he repeats seriously. The way he says it lets you know that he has no idea that what you’ve just told him is basically a bad joke. You turn on your side, burying your face into your coat-pillow, hoping he can’t see the expression on your face.

“Earthling,” he says again. “I wish to assure you that once we are able to return to my base, I’ll do whatever I can to influence Agent Fowler into letting you return to your home—provided we are certain it’s safe.”

“Thank you,” you say softly and sincerely. “I really appreciate that.”

He makes that sound again, that low comforting hum that sounds partially organic and partially mechanical. A short time later the lights on the dash fade off, letting you know he’s entered recharge. You burrow into the seat, attempting to get comfortable, and wondering how much longer the saga of Ultra Magnus and Earthling will continue.

  **.x.**

 


	3. Dumb Decisions, Part I

Morning brings change. You’re quickly changing clothes in the less than desirable privacy offered by the sparse, bare trees bordering the lease, shivering as you do so. You notice that Ultra Magnus’ voice has risen during his daily attempt to contact his base. You pause in the act of doing up your pants, straining to hear his voice better from across the way. You realize that he’s not just speaking and waiting for an answer – he’s actually _conversing_ with someone. He’s finally managed to make contact with the others of his kind. You finish getting dressed slowly, thinking on this new development. You have just (kind of) gotten used to the current state of things, and they are undoubtedly going to change again. It makes you nervous. You’re not certain how much more of this new reality you can take.

When you step out of the trees, Ultra Magnus is striding quickly toward you. The way the ground trembles as he approaches has you bracing against a thin poplar as you look expectantly up at him.

“Good news?” you inquire.

“Yes.” He drops to one knee before you, maybe in an attempt to put you both eye to eye. It actually puts you eye to what equates to his lower shin, but you appreciate the effort. “I have spoken with Optimus. There was a… _situation_... that affected power transfer to the ground bridge, but it has been dealt with. Ratchet has given an estimation of 10 to 12 cycles until the bridge is operational again.”

You do the mental math. “So we’ve got another day on the road, more or less.”

“More or less,” he agrees, standing. And then, to your utter surprise, he smiles down at you. “Hopefully less.” He backs up a few steps, giving himself room to transform. Still reeling slightly from that smile – _that’s two in less than 12 hours! –_ you obediently approach when the passenger side door swings open, pulling yourself up into the cab with what you now consider to be practised ease.

The morning hours pass quickly. Undoubtedly buoyed by the news of the ground bridge’s impending repair, he’s downright pleasant by the standards you’ve become familiar with. He pulls over at a gas station without even having to be asked, and when you return laden with bags a whole twenty minutes later due to having the misfortune of being in line behind an octogenarian with a literal wad of lottery tickets needing to be checked, he limits his unimpressed response to an impatient sigh.

Which you call him on immediately. “You sigh a lot,” you say conversationally, enthusiastically digging into a bag of beef jerky. His “good” mood is somewhat infectious. The truth of the matter is that you are really, really, _really_ tired of life on the road. Even if you have to spend a little time in Nevada, you’ll be okay with it as long as you never have to stare at the painted lines on a highway ever again. Hell, maybe you’ll even get to see Vegas.

“I don’t sigh,” he responds, clearly affronted.

“But you do,” you tell him, “just like this.” And you heave a dramatic sigh as an example.

“That’s not a sigh,” he says. “That’s an ex-vent.”

“It sounds an awful lot like a sigh.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay,” you say, speaking around a mouthful of jerky, “then explain to me what an ‘ex-vent’ is.”

“It’s what you would call an… unconscious reflex. Without getting too complex, it helps to both preserve and encourage the functions of our cooling and intake systems.”

“Cooling systems, huh?” You swallow your mouthful and then continue with a shit-eating grin. “Like the kind our cars have?”

He delivers the exact kind of reaction you’d hoped for, his voice taking on a distinct, disdainful edge. “Not even close.”

“I jest,” you say, reaching out to pat the dash in front of you. “You’re obviously nothing like our cars. You’re way cooler.”

He huffs, unimpressed with your half-assed effort at an apology. “There!” you crow. “You just sighed!”

“I _ex-vented_.”

“Right. You ex-vent as an unconscious reflex, the same way we sigh. But is there any chance, any chance at all, that your kind also ex-vents in order to convey things like impatience, irritation or anger?”

There is a long silence. You know you’re still grinning; you can’t help it. Finally he concedes. “Yes.”

You take another bite of jerky. It dawns on you that you’re enjoying yourself. Things don’t look so bad today. Ultra Magnus got to talk to his boss. In (hopefully) a few hours you’ll be well and away from any highways, talking to “Agent Fowler” about getting your life on track. In the meantime, you plan on learning everything you can about your Autobot companion, because honestly you’d be a goddamn fool not to.

“So,” you say a few minutes later, twisting the cap off a bottle of iced tea. “Tell me some things about your kind.”

“What do you wish to know?” His tone is decidedly cautious.

“Nothing classified,” you assure him. “Nothing I’m not supposed to know. Yesterday you called this,” you tap the side of your head, “a helm. What do you call these?” You raise your hands in the air.

“Servos.”

You point to your eyes. “And these?”

“Optics.”

You continue in this vein for a few minutes, simultaneously amused and intrigued while acquiring a slew of new anatomical terms, including but not limited to “pede,” “dentae,” “chassis,” and “actuator.” He seems less interested in learning the names for your body parts, but given that he’s a huge, armed marvel of living metal capable of actual physical transformation, you can’t really blame him for thinking that humans are not anywhere near as impressive.

“So what do you consume for energy?” you ask him.

“You are unusually vocal today,” he comments pointedly by way of response.

“So are you,” you counter, choosing to ignore his not-so-subtle hint and taking another drink of your iced tea, “but that’s okay. I’m talkative because I’m in a good mood. No offense, my friend, but I’m not really a fan of what we’ve been doing for the past few days. And I’m sure you’re not either. So, with the end in sight, I can’t really help but feeling just a little bit more optimistic.”

He’s doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then: “I was under the impression that the organic term ‘friend’ was reserved for those one frequently interacts and forms bonds with.”

“Well, yes. But it’s also a term we can and do use loosely, if the situation merits it.”

“And you feel our situation has merited it?”

You take another drink to buy yourself some time. His voice is impassive; you can’t tell if he’s insulted by what you said or whether he is, in true Ultra Magnus form, simply ambivalent. “I do,” you tell him finally. “I don’t know you well at all, you don’t know me well at all, but we’ve been thrown together in this situation and, well… you didn’t leave me behind to die, so that’s something.”

Well. That was certainly some Grade A rambling on your behalf. In an attempt to shake off the awkwardness, you prompt quickly, “So? What does your kind use for fuel?”

He obligingly  proceeds to give you what you’re sure is an incredibly dumbed down explanation of something called “energon.” You listen attentively, and when he’s finished, you ask, “So that’s why you’ve been powering down every night? To conserve energon? If we weren’t on the run, you could go a lot longer?”

He answers all your questions with one word. “Yes.”

You lean back in the seat, your drink and your bag of jerky cradled on your lap. “This is really fascinating. I mean it. You have no idea how incredible all of this is to me. So… thanks for humoring me. I appreciate it.”

“... You’re welcome, Earthling,” he says, and you smile.

**.x.**

You end up having your early afternoon nap as you usually do, curled up in the corner of the seat with your cheek resting against the coolness of the window. When you wake up an hour later, you find that the scenery has changed from what it was this morning. Ultra Magnus had switched from north to northwest while you were slumbering and now you are firmly in the middle of Alberta’s foothills. You are on a gravel road, albeit a wide one, and the hills loomed on either side, thick with forest and snow. It takes you a minute of blearily blinking out the window before you realize that you know exactly where you are. This is the Forestry Trunk Road, which winds through the foothills and offers numerous access points into the mountains proper. In the summer it’s frequented by avid campers (such as yourself) and all other manners of outdoorsmen/women due to the number of campgrounds and breathtaking sights offered along its path. It’s not always open in the winter due to its remoteness and excess snowfall, and as you stare at the road ahead of you you realize that there are no fresh tracks, indicating that it’s most likely currently under closure.

“You don’t really worry about shitty road conditions, do you?” You ask him, locking your hands together behind your head and arching your back in a stretch.

“I’m more than capable of traversing terrain far worse than this.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you say. You finish your stretching and duck your head a little to get a clear view in the passenger side mirror. To your surprise, you see two smaller vehicles following in the distance.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones going sightseeing,” you remark, reaching for your bag full of junk food on the floor.

“They are not ‘sightseeing.’” Ultra Magnus says. Something in his voice prompts you to stop what you’re doing and lift your head up.

“What do you mean?” you ask. You duck your head again, looking in the mirror to see the vehicles behind you You can’t tell much from this distance other than that they’re smaller in size than the semi you’re currently riding in and dark in color. The clouds of snow kicked up by Ultra Magnus’ wheels makes it difficult to discern much else. You realize he has yet to answer your question, and suddenly there’s a heavy, leaden feeling in the pit of your stomach, an awful suspicion waiting to be realized. “What do you mean?” You prompt him. “Are they… are those Decepticons?”

There is a very long silence. And then: “Yes.”

“Oh fuck.” You swallow hard, slumping in the seat, your fingers clutching at your knees. “Where did they come from? How long have they been following us?”

“I suspect they have been aware of our location all along,” he says. His voice, while steady, carries a definite grim undertone. “And have merely been waiting for an opportune time to strike.”

“So why now? Why not yesterday, or the day before?”

“The two following us are vehicons,” he explains, and in anticipation of your next question, goes on to elaborate. “They are the foot soldiers of the Decepticons. Smaller, less powerful, and expendable. Two alone are not a significant threat.”

“Okay,” you say, unable to tear your eyes from the mirror on your side, “So you think these two have been tailing us for days, but didn’t attack?”

“No. I would have known. I believe groups of them were deployed at strategic points along motorways in an attempt to locate us. They succeeded.”

“You said – ” you have to pause to swallow again, struggling to contain your rising level of fear. “ – you said they were waiting to attack. Why?” And then comprehension hits you like a hammer. “They’re waiting for reinforcements.”

Ultra Magnus’ voice becomes grimmer still. “Yes. Likely a Decepticon officer.”

“Why aren’t you driving faster? Have you tried to lose them? Can you call for help?” Your voice rises with each question.

“Increasing my speed would serve no purpose. They can easily match it.” He slows a little to take a sharp turn; this road is serpentine in places. “I have already signaled for help. The ground bridge is still not operational.”

Bad news and more bad news. Your eyes are still glued to the side-view mirror. You’re unaware that your breathing has accelerated significantly until Ultra Magnus comments on it. “Earthling. Remain calm.”

The sound that leaves you is half-laugh, half-strangled sigh. You’ve got a white-knuckle grip on your own knees, the tension in your fingers so great that they’re aching. The encounter from several days ago comes flooding back to you with tidal force and you’re forced in that moment to recall just how small you’d felt then, how insignificant, how utterly _frail_ – and you’d only been an observer. If an attack came now you’d be in the thick of it, greatly increasing the chances of your death. And there’s also the fact that you’ve become a liability to Ultra Magnus – how well will he be able to defend himself when he’s concerned about your wellbeing?

“Earthling,” he says again, this time with a note of warning. He knows you’re teetering on the threshold of hysterics and is ordering you not to succumb to it.

“Okay,” you say, taking one deep breath and then another. “Okay. Right.” You manage to let go of your knees, flexing your fingers as you do so. “So what do we do, then?”

“We wait,” he replies.

“Until they attack?”

“Our choices are limited.”

“Okay,” you repeat dumbly.

“I will protect you.”

“I know. I know you will.” And you do, with certainty. It helps to take the edge off, a bit. A very little bit, because you’re still a tiny human who is very, very scared.

He continues driving and you remain silent, your eyes darting constantly between the mirror and the windshield. The two cars – _vehicons_ – following have not altered their speed or course. Enough time passes without event that your fear begins to dull somewhat. Maybe they’re just keeping track. Maybe the ground bridge will be repaired soon. Maybe nothing will come of this. And just as you’re thinking that, you see a flash of color in the mirror, a glimpse of bright red overtaking the dark shapes of the vehicons.

“Ultra Magnus!” Your voice is shrill. You lean forward for a better look in the side mirror, your hands clutching at the door handle. The red vehicle is coming rapidly closer and, as you round a corner, you’re able to see that it’s a sports car. A red sports car with standout yellow rims, its entire color scheme screaming _“NOTICE ME!”_

It’s Knock Out.

Your companion kicks it into high gear, accelerating so sharply that you’re thrown back into the seat. This section of the road is basically nothing but twists and turns, and as Ultra Magnus takes them at an extremely unrecommended speed you close your eyes and pray silently to anyone listening. Your eyes snap open as you feel the truck begin to spin; you fully expect to find that you’re skidding uncontrollably on ice. That’s not the case. He’s hit the brakes so hard that you’ve done a complete turnaround and now you’re staring out the windshield at the swiftly approaching Decepticons.

“Hold on!”

His shouted directive worries you. When he begins to shift and reshape himself around you, that worry transcends into full-blown terror. Ultra Magnus is transforming _with you still inside._ Your small body is buffeted about by the change, ungently knocked up and down, side to side, until a heartbeat later it’s over and you’re held in the palm of his hand, cradled loosely within his fist. Splayed out on your side you watch through the gaps of his fingers as Knock Out closes the distance. You cry out as the sudden sound of weapon’s fire nearly deafens you. There’s a blinding blue flash and mingled shouts and then Ultra Magnus is moving. He’s tightened his grip around you in order to keep you more secure, rendering you immobile. Your stomach heaves with every running, lurching step he takes. It feels as though he’s moving upward, but you have absolutely no way of knowing, flat on your back as you are, his closed fingers keeping you pressed against his palm.

You’ve no idea how long this goes on for. Your eyes are welded shut and you know you’re whisper-screaming a mix of profanities and supplications. He stops moving, finally, lifting the hand you’re in and unfurling his fingers. As you attempt to get to your knees he lifts you higher, bringing you closer for examination.

“Are you hurt?” he asks tersely.

“N-no,” you manage to stutter through lips that feel numb. “W-what happened?”

“I triggered a rockslide to delay them. They’re already free of it. You must hide, Earthling. Run from me and hide.”

You get to your feet, finally, and on shaky legs turn in a circle. Standing as you are on his palm, you have an uninterrupted view of the surrounding landscape. Ultra Magnus has scaled the side of a foothill, a steeper one that heralds the beginnings of the mountains proper. Snow laden evergreens as tall as the Autobot loom all around you and below you, far below, you can see the snaking white line of the road you’d just been traversing. You can also see two large dark shapes beginning their ascent to your perch.

You cling to one of Ultra Magnus’ fingers as he sets you down. You hop off his hand and immediately stumble, but get clumsily to your feet and look up at him in fear. “Will you be okay?”

His eyes are focused now on the enemies fast approaching from below. “Run, Earthling. I will find you when it’s over.”

You don’t move. “Will you be okay?” you demand shakily.

He leans down, reaches out and prods you in the chest with one large finger, prompting you to stumble back a few steps. “ _Go!_ ” he barks, and compelled by the intrinsic authority in that one word, you obey.

Running isn’t easy. They terrain is rocky and uneven, the snow knee-deep in places. Your breathing is labored less than a minute into your ungainly flight across the hillside. You hear the sounds of combat erupt behind you, voices shouting in a language you don’t understand, the unmistakable clash of metal colliding with metal. You trip over a fallen log hidden by snow, push yourself up, and look behind you just in time to see one of the Vehicons come tumbling down the hill toward you with Ultra Magnus hot in pursuit. You whip back around and resume running, clinging to trees to maintain your balance, trying hard to regulate your breathing even though panic is attempting to hijack it. Your footsteps as they punch through the hard crust of snow seem far too loud, even though you know they’re drowned out by the sound of Ultra Magnus battling the Decepticons behind you.

Your endurance, not at all impressive by any means during a normal day, is now failing you. You fall once, twice, tripping over things hidden by the deceptive white covering of now. Finally you fall and stay there, face down in the snow, breathing harder than you ever have before, your heart thundering so fiercely that you wonder if it’s about to explode. The sounds of battle have not diminished. If anything, they’ve grown closer. Utterly exhausted but still propelled by the instinct for self-preservation, you prop yourself on your elbows and hazard a look over your shoulder.

Ultra Magnus is fighting off both vehicons not far off. You thought you’d made good distance during your mad dash. Now you see that you didn’t. You also see no sight of Knock Out and you wonder, not without hope, if he’s been debilitated by the rockslide. You manage to get to your hands and knees and turn around to get a better view of the mech free-for-all. Ultra Magnus seems to be holding his own. You amend that thought as you watch him cleanly rip the arm off one vehicon and use it to bash the other across the face. He’s doing better than holding his own. He’s winning.

The armless vehicon lurches toward Ultra Magnus in a desperate attempt to tackle him. The Autobot smoothly steps into the charge, dropping his shoulder and using his own momentum to launch the vehicon up and over. He spins around with astonishing speed considering his bulk and with a well-placed leap, brutally crushes the head of the one-armed vehicon beneath his feet. With one contender down, he turns his attention to the last vehicon standing.

The fighting has brought them closer to your location. You know you’re running on empty; there’s no way you’re going to be able to run much further. You look around desperately for a place to hide. There are no hidden cave entrances revealing themselves in the immediate vicinity, but there is a tangle of tree limbs that forms a little alcove that you might be able to squeeze into. Still on all fours you scuttle over to it, realizing as you draw closer that the bulk of the mass is actually an old, partially hollow tree trunk upon which deadfall has amassed. You’re able to fit your entire body inside, and with some doing manage to twist around so that you can see out the opening. Your vision is partially obscured by the drifts of snow that had piled up around the trunk of the tree. You remedy that by kicking out with both legs to clear a line of sight.

The dueling mechs are almost even with you but are further down the steep hill, locked together in a grapple. Ultra Magnus overpowers the Decepticon easily, bowling him over with a well-placed kick. He follows as the vehicon tumbles further down the rough terrain, most likely preparing to execute the killing blow. Your view of the battle is suddenly blocked as something big, something _red_ , steps into view just outside your hiding spot. Your terrified gaze travels up Knock Out’s leg over the rest of his body. His back is to you, his attention clearly on the two mechs below. You immediately notice that he’s holding some kind of huge, deadly looking gun in one hand and as you watch, he raises the arm holding that gun, clearly taking aim at Ultra Magnus below.

Your paralyzed in that instant. You know without a doubt that if Knock Out pulls that trigger, it’ll be very bad news for your Autobot companion. You also know that if you do anything, anything, to alert Knock Out to your presence, you’ll very likely wind up dead. You have less than a fraction of a second to decide what you’re going to do, logic warring with survival instinct in your mind. You make a choice before even consciously recognizing what it is. Sucking in a deep breath, you open your mouth and scream.

The sound carries throughout the hills, high-pitched and abrasive and, as you’d intended, completely distracting. From between Knock Out’s legs you see both Ultra Magnus and the vehicon pause in their struggle, their heads turning in unison to look up the hill, toward you. And then your vision is filled with the red and white visage of Knock Out, who has bent over to peer into the hollowed trunk of the tree.

“Well, what have we here?” he drawls. His eyes are a malevolent shade of crimson and they narrow slightly as he angles his head to get a better look. “Another tiny fleshy thing. What are you doing all the way up here? Let me guess – you’re Ultra Magnus’ human pet?”

Whatever words you may have uttered are currently jammed inside your throat as it tightens instinctively in fear. Instead you use your heels to try and push yourself further inside the tree, but your back is already flush with the trunk’s interior. The sounds of battle have commenced again. You can’t tear your eyes away from Knock Out’s face, but you catch fleeting glimpses of the two brawlers in the background.

“I’ll never understand what the Autobots see in you humans,” Knock Out continues conversationally. “You’re too small. Too squishy. Personally, if I was going to pick a pet from among the species on this planet I’d pick something bigger. Something that has claws. Fangs. Something that could put up a fight.” He smiles as he says that last bit, smiles as he reaches for you with one hand, smiles because he’s _absolutely about to end your life_.

Your exhausted body undergoes a sudden transfusion of pure adrenaline. Driven by the imperative to _live_ , you shoot from within the tree with an agility that surprises you and Knock Out both. You manage to avoid his grasping fingers by some kind of miracle, actually feeling them grazing the hood of your coat as you scamper away. And then you’re running again – no, not running. You’re fucking _sprinting_ , leaping over the obstacles you can see and by divine intervention avoiding those you can’t. You dart across the hillside, weaving around the large trees in an attempt to make pursuit more difficult. And for a short while, it feels like you’ve succeeded.

Except a backward glance reveals that you haven’t. Knock Out’s method of pursuit doesn’t so much involve running around trees as it does ploughing right through them, and given his size it’s proving pretty effective. He’s gaining on you with a speed that’s fucking terrifying.

“I hate it when they run,” Knock Out remarks to himself from behind you, which only prompts you to double your efforts at being swift. The ground is shuddering with each fast step he takes in your direction, and finally your luck gives out. You attempt to dive over a fallen log and fail miserably, hitting it with your midsection. Your momentum propels your body forward, face first toward the ground, and in an attempt to avoid breaking your face you try to stop your fall with your hands. Bits of loose stone and ice bite into your palms and you cry out in pain, rolling onto your back.

Knock Out is looming over you, because of course he is. “Tough luck,” he says in mock sympathy, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. And then he centers the barrel of his gun directly over your body. Every muscle you have tightens in horrified preparation. You screw your eyes shut, praying that you’ll be mercifully incinerated in one shot.

“Knock Out!”

 _Ultra Magnus._ You open your eyes again, just in time to see the Autobot launch himself at the Decepticon from behind. The collision staggers Knock Out, who stumbles _over_ you. One of his feet slams into the ground a fucking foot from your head on the left; the gun he’s just dropped plummets into the snow on your right. Now the two mechs are engaged in a fist fight directly above you, and if you don’t fucking move _right now_ you’re going to be pulverized out of existence. You push yourself to your feet and take two running steps forward only to slide to a halt as one of Ultra Magnus’ feet hits the ground in front of you. You alter your course, darting away, and have to dodge to the side again to avoid Knock Out’s other enormous foot. Finally you’re free and away from them, and you bolt further down the hillside until you’re well and truly clear.

Against all wisdom, you stop and turn around. Knock Out shoves Ultra Magnus and makes a dive for his weapon, but the Autobot recovers quickly. With the same arm cannons he’d used before, he takes aim at the fallen weapon and manages a hit. The weapon explodes in a white flare of heat and sound. Knock Out covers his eyes and staggers backward. “You’ll pay for that,” he snarls, whipping around to confront Ultra Magnus. “ _And_ for that scratch you gave me!”

While Knock Out had been recovering from the explosion, Ultra Magnus had uprooted a huge, undoubtedly ancient spruce tree. He holds it now in one hand and is slapping the length of it across his other palm once, twice, in order to make certain that Knock Out sees it. And then, with near perfect form and blistering speed, he swings it at the Decepticon, nailing him square in the midsection. Knock Out is sent _flying_ , hurtling up and then down in an almost perfect arc, hitting the ground somewhere near the road below. It might be the most beautiful home run you’ve ever seen.

You’ve very little time to enjoy what you’ve just witnessed, because suddenly Ultra Magnus is right there in front of you. He says nothing, instead reaching down and scooping you up, his fingers wrapping around your body. With your arms trapped against your sides you can do little more than watch as he turns and begins to make a way too fast descent down the hill, in the opposite direction of where Knock Out was launched. He’s moving so quickly that he begins to slide a little on the snow, though he does grab at trees with his free hand in order to control his descent. Finally the trees begin to taper away and the ground begins to level out. At the bottom of the hill, hidden from the road by a high ditch and some patchy cover offered by leafless bushes, he comes to a halt.

He sets you down carefully. Your not sure your legs are up to the task of supporting you, weak as they feel right now, but you take one shaky, coltish step forward and then another and are relieved when you don’t immediately crumple into a quivering heap. That relief vanishes immediately, however, when Ultra Magnus drops to his knees, braces himself on his hands, and leans down until he’s face to face with you.  Unable to look at anything other than him, it suddenly dawns on you that he’s likely pissed at you for what you’ve done.

You’re correct in your assumption. “I told you,” he says in an irate voice barely more than a  growl, “to run and hide.”

“I did,” you unwisely protest, because _technically_ you obeyed his directive.

You watch as his face arranges itself into a ferocious scowl, his brow ridges descending, luminous eyes narrowing to mere slits, mouth becoming an even thinner line. “Screaming at Knock Out is not even remotely similar to hiding, native.”

Ouch. He’s back to using that term. “I –” you begin, but he shakes his head and cuts you off.  

“You disobeyed me. You deliberately put yourself in harm’s way. Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

“I was trying to help you!” you snap defiantly. “Knock Out was going to shoot you –”

“I’ve been shot before. Numerous times.”

You feel your temper flaring with predictably poor timing. You’ve just narrowly escaped death several times over and now he’s chewing you out like you’re his subordinate? Driven by the rush that comes from (just barely) being a survivor, you angrily hurl your next words at him, “And what if I hadn’t distracted him? What if he’d shot you? What if they’d killed you? I’d be all alone up here, in the middle of winter, with absolutely no way of calling for help. If they’d captured you, if you’d died, I’d be dead too!”

“And besides,” you finish, hating the way your voice has started to shake with the aftereffects of the adrenaline, “that’s what _friends_ do for each other.”

You’re not quite sure what compelled you to add that last bit, and you fully expect him to scoff and withdraw. Except he doesn’t. He regards you without expression for a long moment. “You should have listened to me,” he says finally, and he’s so close that you can feel the air that carries his words warm against your face. “But I admit that your actions were unexpectedly beneficial in some ways – and problematic in others. Knock Out was very close to extinguishing you. I was not certain I could reach him in time.”

The reminder of just how close you’d come to dying a few minutes ago triggers a delayed reaction. Your throat closes. You begin to tremble. Your stomach starts to roil. You manage to stagger three steps to the side before you hit your knees, hunching over as you convulsively empty the contents of your stomach into the snow. You stay there once you’re done, feeling decidedly lightheaded. You’re also ashamed. There’s nothing more mortifying than puking in front of strangers, particularly giant alien ones. You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand and get unsteadily to your feet.

“Sorry,” you mumble without looking at him.

“You’re in shock,” he observes. “Understandable. I wish we had more time for you to recuperate, but we can’t remain here. Do you have any injuries that require immediate attention? Your servos appear to be leaking fluid.”

You blink up at him until your mind reconciles his anatomical terminology with your own. “My _hands_ ,” you correct him, lifting them up for closer inspection. As he’d said, your palms are dotted with blood from the cuts and scrapes you’d incurred when Knock Out was chasing you. They are superficial, though they are beginning to sting sharply. “I’ll be okay.” You hope it’s the truth.

He stands. “I’ll transform. From this point on we must keep driving. We can’t stop. Understood?”

You nod.

He moves up the ditch, toward the road, but stops and half-turns to look back at you. “While you still shouldn’t have disobeyed me,” he says, “I appreciate your instruction on what ‘friends’ would do in that situation.”

He resumes walking. You stare wordlessly after him, lost in several different chaotic trains of thought. It’s only when he’s transformed and awaiting you on the road that you are able to move, prompted as always by the blunt, commanding sound of his horn.

**.x.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just TFP, but I've been on a kick rewatching the Bay movies so I'm going to merge universes a bit. Or more than a bit. I don't really know what I'm doing.


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